Charlie Huston - Six Bad Things

I get out, find some Band-Aids under the sink, and stick a couple over my wound. I wipe steam from the mirror and look at myself. The cut over my left eye is closed up. I have bruises on my shoulders and ribs and a big one across my chest where the Monte Carlo’s seat belt caught me during the wipeout. My hands and knees are scraped up from all the falling down I’ve been doing.

I look at the tattoos. They start on my left forearm, run up to my shoulder, across my chest, and down to my right wrist. When Dad saw them he made the same sound he made when he saw me light a cigarette. Mom kind of liked them. She touched the one that says Mom and Dad, shook her head at the naked pinup on my right bicep. Tears leaked from her eyes when she saw the banner on my chest with Yvonne written on it. I hold up my left arm and look at the hash marks. Still one short; got to get Mickey on there.

I carry the trashed clothes to the kitchen, a towel around my waist. T is drinking a beer and eating a Hostess Fruit Pie.

– Want one?

My stomach is tight and empty, but I don’t feel hungry.

– Pass.

– OK, but there ain’t much else.

– I’ll manage.

He scarfs the last bit of crust and gooey cherry filling and washes it down with the dregs of his Bud. I hold up the clothes.

– Any place I can dump these?

He takes them from me.

– I’ll take care of ’em.

Hitler wanders in from T’s bedroom and growls at me. T comes around the counter to me.

– Here, we gotta take care of this.

He wraps his arms around me.

– T?

– Hitler needs to see you’re a friend.

– Oh.

We stand there like that for a minute, T embracing my half-naked body, Hitler sniffing around us as T whispers to him, calling him a good dog, telling him I’m a friend. Hank Williams singing “I’ll Never Get Out of This World Alive.” And even in this context, it feels so good to be held.

T lets go of me, takes a step back, and Hitler comes over and licks my hand.

– That should keep him from eating your balls.

– Come again?

– He’s a rape dog.

– Come again?

– He’s an attack dog. I had him trained by these guys in Colorado who specialize in dogs for victims of rape, women who have some serious fears based on fucked-up personal experience. So he’s trained to go for an attacker’s balls or neck. Whatever’s closest.

Hitler sniffs my crotch.

– OK, I’m gonna head out to work for a couple hours and then I’m gonna pick up some clothes for you. A disguise. How ’bout that? Later we’ll go find your guy’s place. There’s a robe in my room. Help yourself to whatever else you find. I’m gonna take some of this money for the clothes, OK?

He scoops up a handful of money from the pile on the coffee table. He opens the door, turns, and looks at me.

– You sure about that pick-me-up, man? You look like shit.

I stand wounded in his living room, my bare toes flexing in the greasy fibers of his carpet. I look around at the beat-up couch, the brick-and-plywood coffee table, the milk crates stuffed with vinyl and paperbacks, the stacks of porn videos surrounding the TV. I think about being alone in this room for the next several hours, watching the few bits of my life that I have left, the few I kept because I thought I could control them, spinning away from me the way the blood spun off of Mickey’s head as he bounced down the stone steps.

I think about what an ideal place this is for a suicide.

– Yeah, maybe you better give me something.

He gives me a Xanax, and gets Hitler into his Chrysler 5th Avenue. I stand in the open door in his robe as he pulls out.

– T, wait.

He puts on the brakes.

– Yeah?

– I thought you were dealing?

– Sure.

– So what’s the job?

– I DJ the morning shift at a strip club on Fremont. It’s fun and the girls are great customers. See ya in a couple hours.

He drives off, Hitler sitting up in the seat next to him. I stand in the door and look out at the sharp blue sky over the trailer park.

AMERICA IS in love with my parents. Eighty-six percent “support” them and a whopping ninety-three percent “feel sorry” for them. This according to a poll on CNN.com.

Other than a written statement read by their court-appointed attorney, they have refused to speak with the media. We are so sorry for the losses suffered by the families of Deputy Fischer, Willis Doniker, and our friend, Wade Hiller. We don’t understand what has happened. All we know is that we love our son and we want him to come home and turn himself in so that we can help him. Their stoicism, combined with their blue collar-suburban appeal, have “endeared” them to the American public. This, according to one of CNN’s media/legal experts.

I’ve already seen the tape of them being escorted from the court building in Modesto and being loaded into the unmarked car that took them to a hotel. They can’t go home because the house is still sealed, being picked over by the FBI. They look tired and old and confused and lost. Not even the Xanax can make this bearable. So I don’t bear it.

I switch on ESPN.

The NFL wrap-up is starting on the six PM Sportscenter. The Dolphins coach is talking about how disappointed he was in his team’s effort against Detroit. But, he’s telling everyone in South Beach there’s no need to panic just because the Jets beat Green Bay and moved into first in the division. The Fins still control their own destiny because they play the Jets on the last day of the season. Get a win against Oakland this weekend and against the Jets the following weekend and the division is ours. I am not reassured.

Miles Taylor is doubtful for Sunday, and Coach is babbling about passing more. This, despite the fact that he has a noodle-armed quarterback whose one great ability is to hand a football to Miles. Add to this the Raiders’ top-ranked secondary, and I have yet another reason for wishing Coach would stop breathing air that other people could be using.

I hear a car scrunch up through the gravel. I look at the clock on top of the TV. Over six hours have drifted by since T left. The back door opens and Hitler explodes into the trailer. He freezes when he sees me, growls once, remembers we’ve met, and hurls himself into my lap. I wince as he puts a paw on the bullet wound in my thigh, and manage to shove him back to the floor, but not before my hands are coated in drool. T walks in behind the dog, his arms loaded with shopping bags and a big cardboard box. He dumps all of it on the floor.

– Here.

He walks back out the door and the dog runs after him. I look through the bags: 501s, a black cowboy shirt with white piping and pearl snap buttons, and a pair of black Tony Llama boots. I pick up the box and set it on my lap. T comes back in, a case of Bud balanced on either shoulder. I open the box and pull out the black Stetson within. T turns from where he’s set the beer on the counter and smiles.

– How ’bout that? I almost went with brown, but then I thought, you’re a bad guy, why fight it?

I turn the hat in my hands.

– T, I thought you were gonna get me a disguise. Something to make me less conspicuous.

He takes the hat from my hands and sets it on my head.

– Rodeo week in Vegas, man. No one is gonna look twice at you in that stuff.

Rodeo. I’ve heard that before.

– Rodeo?

– The NFR, man. National Finals Ro-day-o. Ten days of broncs and bulls, man. Big business for me, that’s why I was out so late last night. I tell ya, those cowboys are bigger speed freaks than the strippers. I’m making bank over at the Mack Center and hanging around the Frontier.

– Rodeo. Got it.

I get up, walk to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. The hat covers my hair and the brim leaves my face in deep shadows. T may be on to something.